William Monk 19 - Blind Justice

The jury at least has a right to this much, if they are to take it into account in their verdict.”
    “Of course,” Drew conceded.
    Rathbone grasped at last precisely why Gavinton had looked so smug when proceedings had opened today, and why he had glanced at Rathbone with a sly half smile on his face. It chilled him as if someone had opened a door and allowed in a bitter wind. But there was nothing he could do. It was a perfectly legitimate tactic. In fact, it was probably what he himself would have done in Gavinton’s place, and they both knew it. It was going to be a rough few days. He would have to be very careful not to make any errors or allow his emotions to dictate an action, or even a look or a word. If he did, the damage might be lasting.
    No wonder Ingram York was glad not to have the case himself. It crossed Rathbone’s mind that York might also be glad he was the one who had received it, especially considering how things had gone at the dinner party. A moment later he dismissed the thought. York didn’t even know him. Why would he care, one way or the other? And what was one dinner party?
    But then, one dinner party had been enough to convince him that York’s wife was one of the loveliest women he had ever seen. There was a beauty in her face far deeper than feature or coloring; he had seen the intelligence there, the humor, and a quality of gentleness that seemed to signify an ability to dream—and to be hurt. He thought of the room with yellow walls that she desired that would appear as if it were filled with sunlight. There would be no tension in such a place, he thought. No seeking to find fault. It would be a place where dreams were safe.
    There was a noise of scraping wood.
    He was not paying attention. He jerked his mind back. Drew was speaking.
    “The clinic in question is in Portpool Lane,” Drew said. “It is run by a Mrs. Hester Monk. Her husband, William Monk, is commander of the Thames River Police, and she has been known in the past to havea considerable involvement in some of his more serious cases, ones of violence and … obscenity.”
    There was a ripple of interest around the gallery and one of the jurors nodded to himself with a little shiver.
    “Which is natural enough, I suppose,” Drew continued, “because she is in daily contact with much of the lesser criminal elements in the city who might have information that her husband could use in his investigations.”
    Two more of the jurors nodded.
    Gavinton was smiling. Warne was almost expressionless. Had he any idea what was coming?
    Drew resumed his explanation. “The establishment Mrs. Monk runs is, of necessity, on the edge of the criminal underworld. Those are the people she is endeavoring to help, and as a woman of compassion, she reaches out to them. The trouble is that her judgment is rather too often swayed by her emotions.”
    Gavinton held up his hand to stop Drew, and then took a step closer to the stand. His voice was smooth, placating.
    “That is a sweeping statement to make, Mr. Drew. I’m afraid you need to be less general, and more specific,” he explained. “You cannot expect the court to accept what you say either as factual or as relevant, unless you can show us by an example, the truth of which my learned friend can question and test.” He looked up at Rathbone again, and this time there was clear victory in his eyes.
    Rathbone would have paid a high price for the chance to retaliate effectively, but he had no weapon, and they both knew it.
    Drew was well primed. “Of course.” He bowed very slightly, his lips drawn tight in a gesture of distaste, as if he were actually reluctant to answer. “A year or two ago there was a case involving a most unpleasant man by the name of Jericho Phillips.” He enunciated each word carefully. “He was accused of using small orphaned children—all boys, so far as I know—in a riverboat he owned. He made obscene photographs of them.” His voice trembled with anger. “He even used some of themas child prostitutes, and then blackmailed his wretched clients. The worst of his crimes was the murder of an unknown number of these unfortunate boys when they rebelled, or reached an age when they were no longer to his clients’ taste.”
    He waited a few moments for the horror of what he was describing to sink into the minds of the listeners and take shape, and then he continued, his voice a little lower, as if the horror of it all had crushed him.
    “Mrs.